


Necessary and Sufficient

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, DEREK SUFFERS THE MOST OKAY, Danger, Dirty Talk, Drama, Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Humor, Imprisonment, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Make Them Do It, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn Thinly Disguised As Plot, Porn With Plot, Rampant Debauchery, Random Stiles is Random, Ridiculous, Self-Control, Sex Magic, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Snark, Supernatural Elements, Underage Sex, Unintentional Seduction, Very Thinly, Werewolves, YOU'VE GOTTA BELIEVE ME
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it even possible for penises to develop Stockholm syndrome?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary and Sufficient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/gifts).



> Dedicated to Suaine, because she asked [this question](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/31061912106/suaine-whats-your-favorite-trope-for), and I just had to write my own version of an answer.

* * *

 

"Get. Us. Out of here," Derek rumbles, his arm tightening around Stiles, the runes of the circle around them flaring and dancing like heatless flames. Derek's last attempt at stepping out of the circle had nearly lost him his arm, but maybe Derek's gotten used to nearly losing his arm on a semi-regular basis, because as soon as his fingers regrew themselves, he went right back to bossing Stiles around.

Doesn't _anything_ phase Derek? Stiles is still reeling and a little sick in the stomach from the sight of Derek's fingers just dropping off his hand. He stares, appalled, at the three-and-half-digits (thumb, forefinger, ring finger and half of Derek's middle finger), claws included, rolling like unholy _hors d'oeuvres_ on the floor just outside the circle. Oh, god, like literal finger food. He's going to throw up.

"Concentrate," hisses Derek, shaking him a bit. Which, well, it might be 'a bit' for a werewolf, but it almost rattles Stiles's bones right outta him.

"Stop! Stop, I can't focus if you're shaking me like your very own personal rag-doll, okay? Just - keep me from toppling over the edge. I'm going to have to, um, bend over to look at the runes - "

"Do it," Derek commands.

Stiles slowly bends until he's as close to the circle's boundary as he can afford, the runes flickering in and out right under his nose. If his face touches them, he might as well be dead. Unless people can generally survive without their _faces_. Jesus Christ. It's not like he can just crouch and look at those goddamn runes, given that they're weaving and shifting over the last few inches of the boundary, and his human reflexes aren't fast enough to get him out of their reach, should they go for him.

Derek holds him steady, newly-regrown fingers digging into Stiles's waist, as Stiles leans lower and lower, trying desperately to make sense out of the flitting marks on the floor.

"Um," says Stiles, frantically tracking the moving symbols, although it's difficult, because they keep transmuting mid-movement, dark and sinuous, almost sentient. Like living ink. Like bloo -

Oh. _Fuck_.

Stiles reels back, appalled, and Derek catches him.

"What?" Derek's voice is harsh.

"I. I just. I think I recognize what it is. And it's not pretty, Derek, it's - "

"What. Is it."

"Uh, Deaton's been going over this stuff with me, right? Not making the runes, so much - that's, like, advanced placement, and I'm still a beginner - but breaking the runes, or at least finding out what might be needed to break them, and - "

"Stop babbling and get to the point."

"It's blood," Stiles blurts, his stomach twisting up in knots. "What we need, to break the spell. It's - wait!" he exclaims, when Derek lets go of Stiles and flicks out his claws, full-length, as if to slash at his own veins. Freaking Wolverine.

"I'll heal," Derek says, tersely. "I can bleed as much as this damn thing wants - "

"No! Not werewolf blood!"

Derek freezes.

"Human." Stiles swallows. "It's. It's human blood."

Derek's expression has gone all… weird. Blank. _Something_.

"Y-yeah. And I'm, uh, the only human in here, so. I think it's. A sacrificial circle?" He's sweating, so he tugs the collar of his T-shirt away from his neck. "Like, the runes will only vanish when enough, um. Blood. Has been spilled. And I don't just mean a few drops, I mean, like, an entire person's worth of blood. It has to be a proper sacrifice."

Derek's claws go back in. He looks stunned. "They want me to - "

"Yep, that's what I figure. They - they want you to kill me. It's the full moon in two days, so they must be planning on you going nuts and - "

"I won't kill you."

"I know that, but - " Wait, how _does_ Stiles know that? He just does, the way he knows that Scott's a moron and his dad won't be able to resist a single frosted donut if Stiles isn't there to make sure he eats healthy. He just _knows_. "I know," he says, eventually, quietly.

Derek just looks at him. His face still has that weird blankness to it, like maybe he's about two seconds from going apeshit and is expending so much energy in just keeping himself _sane_ that he doesn't have any left over to animate his facial muscles. "Their code won't allow them to kill a werewolf that hasn't killed humans," he says. "They want me to kill a human in order to escape. They want to force me to kill you, so that they're justified in killing me."

"Mr. Argent would stop them. If - "

"If he knew about it."

"Yeah. But he doesn't. So… it's just you and me, down here. In this basement. In the secret hide-out of the big, bad Hunters from South Carolina. Hell, we wouldn't even know where they were from if their leader wasn't given to stereotypical villainous monologues, but - _South Carolina_? Why? Why're they even in Beacon Hills?"

"Not all the Hunters have been happy with Argent's… retirement."

"He's not technically retired."

"No," says Derek, still with that exaggerated, I-could-choke-a-bitch-but-I'd-rather-just-scare-you-shitless patience. "He just refuses to kill the werewolves that are living on his own territory."

"Ha! Maybe we should've, like, faked some werewolf deaths. Or something. Just to keep these guys away. 'Cause they're… these Hunters have been around a long time. Maybe even longer than the Argents. They know more about the lore and the runes, that sort of thing. Just look at this trap. They won't even have to check in on us, the lazy sons of bitches; they'll just wait for me to die, and whoever cast the circle will instantly feel that the circle was broken, and _then_ they'll come after you."

"That level of knowledge is unusual. For Hunters."

"They've probably got someone like Deaton on their side. Which, um, it would be great if we could get a message to our Deaton?"

"We can't get a message to him." Derek paces back and forth within the bounds of the circle, but at three feet across, it only affords him about two steps at a time. "Not from in here."

"And you can't howl, because that'll bring the rest of the pack, and… we really don't want them to get involved. Bad enough the two of us got captured."

Derek doesn't say anything. For a moment. Then, he says, so low that Stiles almost doesn't catch it: "I'm sorry."

"Huh?" What? Is Derek apologizing? _Derek?_ The Alpha? The A in the A-Team? And also the 'a' in 'asshole of magnificent proportions'?

"For getting you caught up in this. You're not even - "

"If you say I'm not 'pack,' I will seriously kick you in the face, Derek. Now, are you gonna claw me open, or what?"

Derek looks like he _has_ been kicked in the face.

"Uh. No, I didn't mean - I meant, how do we convince this circle I'm bleeding to death? Maybe you could just, like, slice my wrist open and I could bleed along the lines, and that'd convince it that I'm lying dead in the middle of the circle and the blood's overflowing from my desiccated corpse, or something?"

"You can't fool magic."

"Yeah." Stiles's shoulders slump. "First thing Deaton told me. But I just - I can't just give up."

"Then don't." Derek comes back around to where he was, behind Stiles, and wraps an arm around him again. "Study the runes some more. There must be a way out."

"But I - " Stiles sighs, and leans out to the edge of the boundary, once more, relying on Derek to keep him from falling out. The symbols don't look any different. "Look, maybe you should - and I hate to _make_ you, but - maybe you should, you know? K-kill me."

"Shut up," Derek grinds out.

"No, I'm… I'm serious. There're Hunters out there, and you need to be with the rest of your pack, not - not here, while…" Stiles trails off, trying not to think of what happened to Derek's last pack. Plus, the lives of the many outweigh the life of the one. Simple arithmetic. "I just don't want my skinny ass to be the reason all of them - Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Jackson, _Scott_ , for god's sake, I just - I can't be the reason they're - "

"Shut. Up." Derek hauls him back. " _Think_. It's the one thing you're good for."

"Ha ha," Stiles laughs, shakily, resting his hands on Derek's arms, where they're still locked around him. "Was that a compliment, or an insult?"

Derek squeezes him so tightly, Stiles half-expects his upper body to pop right off his lower body, like a Lego figurine. His ribs actually _creak_.

"Whoa, don't kill me if you're not gonna bleed me to death, okay? It'd be a waste."

Derek's hold loosens. His breath is far too even against the back of Stiles's neck, the sort of even that Stiles knows - as a result of thoroughly going over meditation techniques with Scott - doesn't bode well for a werewolf's composure. It usually means they're _trying_ to stay composed. Trying, and inevitably failing.

"Hey," Stiles says, softly. "Hey, it's fine, I'm all right, I'm - uh. Wow." Just then, Stiles remembers something Deaton told him once, offhandedly, when Stiles had pointed to a pentagram in Deaton's well-worn grimoire. A pentagram that looked awfully similar to the rune that winks in and out of visibility across the circle's boundary. " _Wow_."

"What did you just see?"

"I… heh. What's more powerful than than death? Magically speaking, what's got more, y'know, _juice_?" Stiles snickers madly - possibly hysterically - because that was just, like, the worst pun _ever_ in the history of ever -

"I don't know, Stiles, I'm not under Deaton's special training - "

"Life, Derek. Life's better than death. Any day. Living bodily fluids are better than dead bodily fluids. More powerful. Hundreds of times more powerful, maybe. Now, see, the Hunters wouldn't have known I'd know that, because, as far as _they_ know, I'm just the random human kid that keeps hanging around the pack for some reason, maybe because he's suicidal, 'cause his psych reports from around the time of his mom's d…eath," Stiles almost stumbles, "definitely indicate suicidal tendencies. Ideation. Whatever."

"Stiles."

"What? I'm sure they looked up everything they could get on me, _on paper_ , but never bothered to stalk me the proper way. The old-fashioned boots-on-the-ground way. The way they've been stalking _you_. To them, I'm just cannon fodder."

"They didn't see you as a threat."

"Who would? I wouldn't. Just like Deaton's top-secret identity is top-secret, so they won't know about him. I'm starting to get that that's the whole point, with being what… Deaton is. What he's training me to be. You stay under the radar, so you're the hidden ace, the one still able to fight when everyone else has been taken out. Except that I don't want _anyone_ to be taken out. So we have to get out of here, like, right now, and you could maybe… look the other way? While I do this?"

"Do what?"

"I, er. I've… this is gonna sound wacky, but you've got to believe me, there're only two things that'll work to take the barrier down. One's blood, and the other's - uh. It's. You really should just close your eyes. Crap. Except you can smell things, right? Um, maybe don't _breathe_ for a couple minutes, either - "

"Stiles - "

"Not that I have a clue how I can even get it up in the middle of a life-threatening situation with your _cut-off fingers_ in my line of sight, because eviscerated were-parts don't normally do it for me, and it's not like I've got anyone to help me, but - "

Stiles feels a pull on his jeans. He gapes down at himself, disbelieving, as Derek's fingers unbuckle his belt.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Helping you. Wasn't this what you meant?"

"Uh. I. I was saying that you should look _away_ \- "

"How much do you need?"

"Derek, I can do this by myself, seriously - "

"You just said you couldn't get aroused by yourself."

"I'm _seventeen_. I could _try._ " There's another pull, and - "Eep! What're you - "

Derek's unzipping him. "How. Much."

"I don't know, man! I've never thought about the blood-to-semen differential!"

"Didn't Deaton - "

"No, I don't sit around discussing the holy powers of jizz as opposed to plain ol' plasma with the local veterinarian-wizard!"

"Maybe you should."

"Yeah, obviously, but - ohgod." Stiles's voice just _disappears_. Evaporates. Like the last vestige of moisture from the bottom of a desert well, because the heat under Stiles's skin has just shot up to temperatures hotter than the average desert.

Because Derek's hand is on his _dick_.

 _Derek's_ hand. Is on his -

The world literally _spins_ -

They hate each other. Fine, not 'hate,' but - there's definitely no love connection, here. Maybe an oddly tolerant sort of exasperation, at most, and even that usually involves death threats and mutual insults.

Which is to say, of all the people in the world that Stiles might have reasonably expected to one day have their hands on Stiles's package, Derek was not one of them. And, sure, Stiles is bi and Derek is kind of a sex god, but -

But -

"You're hard," Derek says, with the same flat, vicious approval he reserves for when the Betas in his pack master a fighting skill he's thrashed into them, and that's - that's just _insane_ -

"Gee, you're _touching my penis_ , Derek, I wonder why? You can let go, now, by the way, thanks a lot, I can take it from here - "

Derek _tugs_.

And Stiles's knees give out a little. "Oh, damn," he says, dizzily, vision narrowing and dimming, fresh sweat springing to the surface of his skin, his dick feeling like a live wire that's just been short-circuited. "Nuh. Wuh. I. Wait - "

But Derek just keeps at it, still holding Stiles back against his chest with one arm, while the other one jacks Stiles off. Quickly. Efficiently.

And there's something miserable about it, some corner of Stiles's soul that curls up with the blackened bitterness of burnt paper, because this the first time anyone's touched him down there, and it's just -

It's _soulless_ , no warmth in it, no affection, no -

There's nothing -

And then he's coming, helpless and stupefied, watching the come spurt out of himself and hit the runic barrier. It flickers and visibly weakens, the flickering of the runes growing duller, and -

"It's working," Derek murmurs, right up against Stiles's ear, and Stiles tips back his head and _moans_ , because Derek still isn't letting him _go_. Which, he gets that this is all about emergency handjobs and they can't afford to take their time, but -

He's too sensitive. He always is, after coming. It almost hurts, but Derek can either smell that on him or just knows on account of also being a dude, because he eases his strokes down, some. Turns them into whispers of touch that are both better _and_ worse, too-light and too-cruel at the same time, teasing and relentless, never stopping, speeding back up.

"Relax," Derek says, and Stiles wants to snort, but instead all he can do is twitch into Derek's grip and shake like a leaf, his shirt clinging to him with perspiration. Fuck, he can _smell_ himself, smell how sweaty and horny he is, smell the spunk he's just shot all over place, and if it smells so monsoon-thick and heavy to him, he doesn't want to know what it must smell like, to Derek.

Derek, who's just playing with him, barely-there calluses and a hint of a nail, just a trace of a scratch along the underside of Stiles's cock, a faint, sizzling line that has Stiles's nerves keening with the sharpness of sawn-off glass.

Stiles can't even moan, anymore. Any sounds he might've made are choked to death inside him, pressed flat under the weight of sensation and just - just _gone_ , and Stiles realizes with a sort of distant dizziness that even if he can't hear himself, Derek probably can, from the hitching near-sobs that never escape Stiles's chest, to the subsonic whimpers fluttering in the back of his throat.

For Stiles, though, it's silent. Too silent, except for the caught, ragged stuttering of Stiles's gasps and the too-even inhalations and exhalations of Derek, right behind him, even as clockwork. Totally unaffected. It'd be humiliating, except that it's also vaguely comforting, like Stiles is the werebeast and Derek is his anchor, keeping him from flying apart. Which is some freaky Stockholm shit, right there, because Derek's _making_ him fly apart. Is it even possible for penises to develop Stockholm syndrome?

Yeah, apparently, it is.

But not just for penises. For whole _bodies_.

Because when Stiles stares down at his cock leaking in Derek's clasp, he can also see that his nipples are hard. Damn, but that's embarrassing. They've stiffened to stubborn little peaks, visibly dark under the damp white cotton of his shirt. And because this is crazy, anyway, and they _do_ need to get this over with as soon as possible, Stiles brings his own hand up to sweep a thumb across his left nipple.

Derek's breath _catches_.

"What?" Stiles asks, and his own voice is raspy, unfamiliar, sandpapery. God, it's such a relief to talk. It was getting way too quiet, in here. "It's what I do."

"You - "

"My, y'know," Stiles gulps, as the bright, familiar spark shoots from his nipple to his dick. "Routine."

"Routine."

"When I'm alone, I - "

"Don't," says Derek, which doesn't make any sense, except that then Derek's palm is clamped over his _mouth_ , and Stiles makes an indignant 'mmph' sound, because he needs to talk, okay, talking is how he copes with stressful situations, and getting jerked off by his supernatural frenemy in a life-or-death scenario in the middle of a magic circle is a brand new entry right at the top of his list of stressful situations, second only to someone he cares about being in immediate mortal danger, and -

He licks Derek's palm in revenge.

Derek just clamps down tighter on Stiles's jaw and keeps on stroking, so Stiles has to thrust into Derek's grasp and _bite_ , vengefully, and the bite must feel as ineffectual as a baby squirrel's to Mr. Big Bad Wolf, but Derek still makes this aborted growl and jerks him off even faster, ignoring Stiles's desperate, stifled whines as he comes a second time.

Stiles's legs crumple, but Derek's there to catch him.

Of course he is. Bastard.

"Good news," Stiles pants, because Derek's not busy forcing his mouth shut, anymore, "the circle's at half-strength. Bad news, the circle's… still at half-strength."

It's true. The runes are a hell of a lot duller - and slower - than they were before. Wait, no, they may be even weaker than half-strength; some of them seem to be dying off, like put-out flames.

But they haven't all been extinguished.

Not yet.

Derek shrugs; Stiles can feel it against his back. "At least one more time, then."

"No!" Stiles panics as Derek's hand moves toward his crotch _again_. "No, I can't. My dick'll fall off! It'll be fucking _painful_! And dick-pain is the worst kind of pain!"

"It's either pain," Derek says, "or death."

"Man, you're like some depressed Calvinistic philosopher, although why I'm remembering schoolwork in this situation, I have no idea. I don't think Calvinistic philosophers were so eager to jerk dudes off, for one thing. Think we could wait? Ten minutes, at least? Because I wouldn't mind a bit of pain if I honestly thought it'd get us out sooner, but I'm biologically incapable of getting it up for another round, this soon."

"We can try."

"We - hold up, cowboy, get your hand off my dick. Put down the dick and step away from the Stiles."

Derek, miracle of miracles, listens to him, and redirects his hand to Stiles's hip. Maybe he can smell that Stiles genuinely isn't gonna be able to pop another one out, yet.

Great. Now they've got an awkward silence to deal with. A silence way more awkward than the one when Stiles had been getting jacked off, because at least then, he'd been distracted by getting jacked off.

There's nothing to distract him this time, though. Stiles's limp cock is hanging out of his jeans, and his sweat is cooling, and he just feels clumsy and dumb and all-around bizarre and - not ashamed, no, he has nothing to be ashamed _about_ , but - self-conscious. Sort of. Maybe.

"Uh, could I… could I tuck myself back in?"

"No." Derek grabs Stiles's hands before he can do it. "There's no point."

"The _point_ is the preservation of my dignity and my pride."

"It's too late for both."

Stiles elbows him - or tries to, anyway - but it's like elbowing a brick wall. Stupid washboard abs.

Derek just keeps touching him - fingers drifting up under Stiles's shirt, over his chest, his nipples. A soft, electric brush.

Stiles jumps, startled. "I thought we agreed on ten minutes!"

"I'm not touching you where it'll hurt."

"No, just where it'll drive me _mad_ \- "

"You said you… touched yourself. Like this."

"I…" Stiles blushes. Now that he isn't on the brink of orgasm, he can't believe he _said_ that, that he got carried away enough to -

"This will speed things up."

"I'm not a goddamn automobile, Derek, stop trying to foot my accelerator - "

Derek's finger flicks his nipple.

"- fuck. Ah, _fuck_ \- " And he's getting hard again. Impossibly, gradually. Straining upward, lengthening the way a hanged man's neck lengthens before it _snaps_. "Derek, I - I can't - "

"You can."

 _Fuck you_ , Stiles doesn't say, because it'd be a moot point, given the context, and also, his dick is fucking _sore_. How the hell is he even going to -

One of Derek's hands slips down to his thigh and folds into a fist, the knuckles gently lifting and moving Stiles's balls.

Stiles _shudders_. His head knocks back against Derek's shoulder, teeth clacking.

"Not hurting you," Derek says, like saying it will make it _true_.

Tiny shocks run through Stiles, scalding like burns, shorting out his brain. He's blinking away a wetness in his eyes, and he's so hard now that his cock spits pre-come, dripping down and over Derek's fingers, and Stiles is shivering like he's cold, even though he's fever-hot.

He still can't believe this is happening. Everything seems jagged and surreal, like the shard of a magic mirror in an amusement park, reflecting things at slanted angles, elongating and distorting faces, meanings, words. If someone asked him where he was, right now, he couldn't tell 'em.

Derek doesn't stroke him, this time, which is a relief - Stiles isn't sure his cock could take direct friction from Derek's callused palms - but that's also why Stiles is taking too long to come, and every second only ratchets up the agony, whips it up into a rabid, roiling sickness that churns Stiles's blood _and_ his gut -

And he's making noises, unlike last time - he can't help himself - but he can't hear himself above his own roaring pulse, even though, strangely enough, he _can_ hear Derek's breath getting rougher -

Maybe this is -

This is the focus thing, like with werewolves, honing in on one sound in a cacophony, one thing among many, one -

Anchor -

It's -

Stiles isn't gonna make it, he just isn't, and it's too _much_ -

"It's okay," Derek's saying, but his voice is different, somehow, more guttural, more resonant. "You'll be okay."

"C-can't. Derek, _please_ \- "

And Derek curses, and suddenly, before Stiles can even make sense of what's going on, Derek's flipped him around, and he's - Derek's getting on his _knees_ -

"Wha - "

"You won't be able to finish, otherwise," Derek says, like it costs him something to say it, and _no_ , Stiles doesn't want to force someone to do this, never wants to -

"Don't. You - you don't have to - "

"It's. Okay. Stiles," Derek enunciates, clearly, except that his eyes are glowing red, and he's -

When Stiles glances down, he can see that Derek's hard, _too_.

So hard, in his jeans, that it _has_ to hurt -

Serves the bastard right -

And Stiles laughs, high and incredulous, because this - this is just perfect, isn't it? This is ridiculous, the two of them in this situation, with boners for the very people they'd least expected to have boners _for_ -

Derek's such a hypocrite, pretending to be calm, pretending to be composed. The puzzle-pieces slot together in Stiles's head with a nearly audible click, and everything makes sense, from Derek's exaggerated control to his strict indifference, his _fake_ indifference, the goddamn _liar_ -

"Do it, then," Stiles says, feeling wild and insane, somehow driven closer to the edge now that he knows Derek's teetering on it, right along with him. The words tumble out of him like they belong to somebody else. "Take it. You want it? Fucking _take_ it, Derek - "

Derek _snarls_ , his hands bruising Stiles's hips as he yanks them closer, and Stiles huffs out a final laugh before Derek swallows him.

And it's -

It's the end of everything, at once a heaven and an exquisite, boiling _hell_ -

"F-fuck," and the word splits right down the middle, like Stiles's mind. Stiles's back arches as Derek just lifts him to his toes and _forces_ him into Derek's mouth -

Again -

 _Again_ -

And Stiles is gibbering again, pleading, his hands tangling in Derek's hair, his hips thrusting instinctively, the slurping sounds Derek makes around him obscenely sloppy, and it doesn't help that Derek keeps _growling_ , so steadily and so continuously that it's like a constant wet buzz along Stiles's cock, a throbbing vibration that echoes all the way down to Stiles's bones.

"D-do. Derek, just - " And Stiles pries one of Derek's hands off his hips and urges it behind him, because this is what he always does, when he's in the shower, whenever he can. "This," he says, hoping that Derek gets him, "th-this, please - "

Derek groans, and his back hunches, for a moment, like Stiles has just _punched_ him. His pupils are all-red, now, starved and feral, and Stiles spares a moment to wonder how the hell Derek's keeping from wolfing out, completely, from tearing Stiles to bits with fang and claw -

He doesn't care, and maybe that makes him suicidal, yeah, like the shrinks have always said, but he just. Doesn't. _Care_ -

Derek's finger slips into him -

And Stiles _screams_ , bucking, because this is _it_ , this is where he can take the friction, where he _needs_ it. He needs it so much that he can't even voice more than a garbled complaint when Derek pulls _off_ , lips trailing threads of saliva as he turns his face aside against Stiles's thigh, scrape of stubble and a sudden, sharp sting and oh, shit, those're fangs, after all, there they are, there they _are_ -

"Fuck me," Stiles is babbling, unable to think about what he's saying, unable to think beyond the press of those fangs against the softness of his inner thigh, just enough to be a threat, just enough to be a _promise_ \- "Fuck me, Derek, _fuck_ \- "

And Derek does, with his fingers - two, three? - Stiles can't exactly count - making Stiles's ass clench around them, the spit-slick drag of broad, hard knuckles in and out of Stiles's hole, past the tightly quivering rim, fucking Stiles deeper very time. The ache is a dulled lightning that unravels into a thousand delicate, electrifying strands, drifting through him and simultaneously cutting him open, like the stingers of a carnivorous sea-creature, paralyzing and sweetly poisonous, a drug in his veins that turns him sluggish _and_ tormented, each push prompting a slow, wracking writhe that works its way through his muscles and leaves him wrung out and sobbing. It's so, _so_ much better than Stiles's own fingers. The angle is _incandescently_ right -

He just - he wants Derek inside him, Derek's dick filling him inch by inch. He wants to feel the roll of Derek's hips against his ass as Derek _ruts_ into him, wants Derek to hold him face-down while he does it, claws pricking the nape of Stiles's neck -

Oh, god, is he saying that out loud, is he -

He _wants_ to say it out loud -

Wants Derek to hear him, wants Derek to _do_ it -

But if Derek hears him, he gives no sign save for the darkening of his growls and the near-brutal tightening of his grip. All Derek does is nip Stiles's belly and thighs with hungry almost-bites, fangs just stopping short of breaking skin, straying, every now and then, to run his tongue in a molten swipe along Stiles's dick, but not daring to swallow him again, not with his fangs _unable_ to retract, and somehow that, more than anything, is what makes Stiles come.

"D-Der - "

It hits him like a wrecking-ball, a solid wave of crackling light that _slams_ into him, rocking him forward, and he isn't sure if he wails or shouts or if he's beyond making any sound, at all, because he isn't there when it happens, he isn't even a person for it to happen _to_ , just a lone, twitching nerve, unbearably naked and painfully taut, stripped of its casing and singing like a chord that's been _struck_ -

He's -

He may have passed out, for a second.

He… isn't sure. All he knows is that by the time the fireworks stop going off behind his eyeballs and his vision stops going from purple to hazy white to hazier purple, the runes are no longer there, which means that Derek must've remembered to jack him off right onto them, which means they're free, which means -

Means -

He can't _think_ -

He definitely can't stand.

The only reason he's still on his feet is because Derek's holding him up. And he knows he was a virgin until just a while ago, but is sex always this… unmanning? His legs feel like jello. His lungs won't inflate.

He tries to remember how to breathe, and fails, until the fourth try.

"Derek," he manages to say, because Derek's looking ruined, too, lips swollen and hair mussed and eyes fading from red to a shocked and shockingly human blue, "you, uh, you haven't - we should - "

God, he'd begged Derek to _fuck_ him -

And Derek's just staring up at him, like he can still _hear_ that -

The thought shouldn't make Stiles blush the way it does, blush and _crave_ , given that he's so spent that he may not be able to have another orgasm in his lifetime, let alone in the next half hour or however long it takes werewolves to -

"No," Derek says, and ignores Stiles's blush in favor of getting up, hauling Stiles close and burying his nose in Stiles's throat, his fangs thankfully gone. But when Stiles reaches for Derek's fly - damn, those jeans aren't just _tented_ , it's like a vintage Erector Set, in there - Derek lashes out and traps Stiles's hand in his, shakes him, and says, " _No_."

It's like a bucket of ice water.

Stiles snatches his hand back, numbly horrified, and mumbles something about 'sorry' and 'shouldn't have' and 'should've known', but then, Derek's _kissing_ him, quick and savage and angry, before shoving Stiles away, right out the circle, so that Stiles stumbles and almost falls.

"Not. Now," Derek clarifies, and… oh.

 _Oh_. Right. The pack. Warning the pack. Hunters on the loose. Crisis in progress. No time for sexytiemz. Er, unnecessary sexytiemz. Although Derek's giant boner certainly looks necessary, the poor guy. Is he gonna have to ignore that? At least Derek isn't a teenager, anymore; Stiles would be physiologically incapable of not creaming his own pants at any stray contact with a foreign surface, in that state. Derek's ability to focus on things beyond his erection is… kind of impressive, actually. Pity-inducing, but impressive.

"The shoving's still unacceptable," Stiles replies, when he recovers his coherence. He isn't _relieved_. That would be idiotic, because it's not like forced sex - or, in Derek's case, forced sexual frustration - means that they're dating, or that they ever have to touch each other again. So he isn't relieved that Derek _does_ want to touch him again. He's not. They can scarcely stand to be around each other, and that's on a good day.

Derek grunts. "I'll kill them."

"Who, the Hunters? Yeah, man, I guess I'd wanna kill 'em, if they gave me a case of blue balls _that_ bad."

"No," says Derek, as he steps out of the circle, and what, is 'no' his favorite word, now? Other than 'grrr'? "Because they put you in harm's way."

…oh.

 _Oh_.

This is a day of ellipses and italicized epiphanies, looks like.

Did Derek just -

"Could you repeat that?" Stiles squeaks, and shuts up when Derek _glares_ at him. Back to business as usual.

"Fix your pants, for god's sake. We're leaving." Derek scans the basement impatiently while Stiles gets himself in order, no doubt scoping it out for more clues, but there aren't any; Stiles had done his own inventory when they'd first been brought here, and his inventories are flawless. Like Derek said. Thinking. It's what he does.

And if Stiles notices that Derek's eyes keep flicking to Stiles's fingers, as Stiles zips his jeans and buttons them, or that Derek's gaze gets occasionally caught on Stiles's mouth… Well, Stiles charitably doesn't mention it, because it's bad enough that Derek can't even get his rocks off. No need to make it _torture_. (Although Stiles is tempted to see, one day, just how much he can dirty-talk before Derek loses it. He'd seemed on the brink of losing it, today, when Stiles started describing what he liked doing to himself.)

Maybe Derek can smell those naughty thoughts, or something, because his glower intensifies, and there's a slight flush on his face that's just -

Uh- _huh_.

Not entirely forced sexual frustration, then. At least, not with _Stiles_.

The awesomeness of this discovery is one that merits plenty of exploration, later, preferably on a bed. A bed of leaves, even. Whichever is closest, once they're done with the Hunters - a human-made bed or the all-natural variety. Hm. All-natural, if they end up in the forest. Crinkling leaves against bare skin and the loamy scent of the earth rising around them, and Stiles can just _imagine_ -

Derek makes a lupine, irritated noise and lugs Stiles upstairs.

Stiles almost bangs his head against the doorframe. He doesn't object to the hurry, though, given that they're on borrowed time now that the circle's broken. The Hunters will know that they've escaped, and will be on the chase.

He finds his mobile phone on a small pile of bric-a-brac by the porch, wiped of its contacts, but that isn't a problem, because Stiles has everyone's numbers memorized, anyway. He isn't worried about whether the Hunters have texted anyone to call them out, pretending to be Stiles, because Stiles has long since established a texting code (changed at every full moon) to keep such misuses at bay. Heck, he _hopes_ the Hunters tried to text someone, because if they did, and didn't use the right lingo, that would've been a red flag, right there. Everyone may already have gone underground.

"Call Scott," Derek tells him, as they set off at a careful jog down the road, keeping low and ducking behind trees and parked cars. The highway isn't too far from here, and there's a designated meeting-point at the interchange, so he and Derek don't even have to discuss where they're going.

"Already on it," Stiles smirks, punching in the numbers.  "Hey, buddy," he says, when Scott picks up and asks where the hell he's been, and what that non-protocol text message was about.

So they _did_ try to text Scott. Cool.

"Did you warn the others?"

"Yeah," Scott agrees, cautiously, from the other end. "Even Allison's dad. But what - "

"We're heading for the main highway, to In-N-Out. You know the place. Bring your car, be there in ten."

"But - "

"And if you see strangers with guns, _run_."

"Why - "

"Mr. Argent's got friends in town. If by friends, you mean enemies."

"Oh," Scott says, with dawning comprehension. "Fuck."

"Dude," Stiles grins, darting a glance at Derek, who's still scowling at him. "You have no idea."

 

* * *

**fin.**

Please review!

**Author's Note:**

> It's my personal headcanon for this story that Derek's been wanting Stiles all along, and has been waiting for Stiles to turn eighteen before making his, uh, intentions known. He doesn't count on Hunters from South Carolina _forcing_ him to deflower Stiles, though. ~~Fandom = Hunters from South Carolina.~~
> 
> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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